And it was said that one day, the Sleeper would become whole again, and wake, and the Watcher would take him away to the stars. And on that day, they would be ready; they would be complete. This was their destiny. The elders told the story every night, taking delight in adding flourishes and out-doing one another with exaggerations as they grew more and more drunk. And by the end of the night, they would carry the elders off to sleep, and bury those who had died during the night's festivities; then they would gather around the Watcher's hut and wait with great patience. The noises of the night would die away as they stood there, patiently, the Chosen Ones chanting the Watcher's true name, again and again. Only the Chosen Ones knew the true name, the others holding their ears in respect and awe. Occasionally, though, a young child would forget him or herself and lift one hand ever so carefully, and would hear the name - oishmegheid, oishmegheid - rising to the sky above. The Chosen Ones would see, of course, as they always did, and they would smile amongst themselves, knowingly, for such was the way. Curiosity was a high virtue of the Sleeper.

And so they would remain until the early hours of the morning, chanting patiently until the curtain of the hut, adorned with blessed leaf, would shiver and part, and the Watcher would come out and should to them his blessing:

"For the love of all that is good and holy, will you goited, gerbil-faced twonkers smegging shut up!"


Quiet. Very quiet (except for a strange hissing sound) and dark.

Rimmer lay there, wondering if he were dead. Well, deader than he had been. It was nothing like the way it had been when he had first died, however - vague impressions of sunburns, callous officiousness, hints of a language that sounded like ridding the throat of a world-class collection of phlegm. No, it was far too quiet for death. Death also should not be this smoky, or involve something poking right into that sensitive spot below his left shoulder blade.

If I'm dead, he reasoned, I should not have eyes to open. Ergo, if I can open my eyes, I'm not dead.

He opened his eyes.

The time drive hung above him in a twisted lump, dripping hissing splats of molten metal onto the deck right between his legs. He yelped and scooted back. The rest of the corridor, as he glanced right and left, was in equally bad shape. It looked like a giant had picked up the 'Bug and twisted it in his hands, as if it were a beer can wadded for a bar bet. Air hissed out through gaps in the hull, and a he watched, the hull shifted slightly with an agonized scream of metal. The melted time-drive, which had almost restored him to his former position in ancient Greece, must have been destroyed in time to keep their future selves from killing them, but by whatever strange laws of paradox were operative, the damage to Starbug remained. Which meant... Rimmer leapt to his feet and tried not to think as he pounded his way back to the cockpit. But his brain was very good at worrying. It was not good for much else, but it could worry its way right through a frenzied rush through shuddering, debris-strewn corridors.

Its worry proved to be well-founded. The cockpit was just the way he had left it - Lister slouched in his chair, blood trickling from a gash in his forehead, Cat sprawled on the ground, Kryten spitting sparks in the corner, smoke rising from every joint. Rimmer bent down next to Cat, and lifted him slightly. Just enough to see what remained of his chest, which clashed hideously with his jacket. Rimmer was happy that he had no lunch to bring up. He turned to Lister, noting the clotting blood around his gash, the vein next to it...

The vein next to it, which was throbbing slightly.

Rimmer stepped gingerly over the Cat's body, and put his hand to Lister's throat. A pulse beat there - weak and faltering, but it beat! Rimmer breathed a sigh of relief. He turned the pilot's chair towards him.

Rimmer was no doctor, but the very large hole in Lister's side did not look very healthy.

Smeg. Smegging hell. For all of the times he had whinged at Lister and wished the blasted goit dead - well, the prospect of being alone in a Listerless universe disturbed him highly.

Smeg.

Only one thing to do.

After Rimmer had executed his daring rearguard action on the Simulant ship, the others had snagged an escape pod from the debris of the debris of the ship, to replace the one that had escaped previously. Rimmer had given it a good look-see on his return, as escape was rather a priority of his. It was small, but clean; well-stocked, including a small, portable terraform kit and a stasis bed. For the convenience of escapees who had a long way to go.

Rimmer sighed and wrinkled his nose as he picked up Lister. He staggered down to the pod, dropping Lister into the stasis bed. The plan - put Lister in stasis. Somehow, get Starbug working again. Somehow, find a way to fix Lister back up.

Well, the first part would be easy.

Rimmer arranged Lister in a mummy's pose in the bed, checked his far-too-faint pulse, then hit the Stasis Activate button.

A canned American voice declared, "Stasis seal is only active upon pod launch."

Hell. Hell. Hell! Rimmer looked at the creaking, dying Starbug, and the bleeding, dying Lister. Abandon ship? Well, smeg, what did he have to lose?

He hit the Pod Launch button.


Ilse snuck up to the Watcher's hut, hesitating outside. There was not much to see from the outside; a crude hut of wood, with a curtain of the blessed leaf in lieu of a door. Ilse picked at the curtain, biting her lip, feeling slightly nervous. She played absent-mindedly with her braids. Her hair was of the common type - she sighed at the thought of the word - which meant she'd had to grow them out from the roots over a number of years. Unlike many of the other candidates, whose hair was of a type that would grow long without looking matted or getting tangled up (or would indeed grow long at all when loose), everyone could tell that she was trying to become a Chosen One just by looking at her. They could wear their hair long, and get it braided after their initiation, and if they were never initiated, none would be the wiser. But if she failed, her braids would be hacked off, and her defeat would be right there for all to see. That just wouldn't do. It wouldn't do at all.

This was her big moment. It was generally expected for a potential Chosen One to perform a feat of some kind - a daring, dangerous prank. An all-night drinking-binge with experimental new kinds of alcohol, or a brave quest to find new hallucinogenic mushroom or berries; anything new and exciting. Ilse had thought this through long and hard. She wasn't about to do what everyone else had done before her. The way she figured, you couldn't bring something new into the world by walking old paths. You had to let ideas ferment in new places, not just throw new spices into old pots.

There weren't many explorers among her people. They had what they needed in abundance, so why bother? Trees and bushes yielded plenty of fruit, and small animals walked freely into the humane traps they built for them. Life was good; why fix something that wasn't broken? And yet they longed for change. Change meant excitement, and excitement was their lifeblood. So how could she bring change?

Ilse had always loved stories. Especially The Story; the story of how they came to be. The elders told it so wonderfully differently each time, but the more she listened to it, the more it seemed to Ilse that something was missing. Who was the Sleeper? Why had the Watcher brought him here? Where had they come from? These questions brought forth wonderful ideas in her mind; new ideas. Such stories they could inspire! This would be a feat worth bragging about; finding the origins of The Story. And of course, there was only one person among them who could help her in that regard...

She coughed, very quietly. Faint noises came from inside the hut. She took a deep breath and stood up straight. "Oishmegheid!" Her voice was not as confident as she would have liked, by far. Was she not on her way to becoming a Chosen One? Had she not been trained in the chant? She paused. Grumbly noises floated through the curtain, and Ilse took a cautious step back, clutching the nut-shell bottle she had brought, and listened.

A slightly nasal voice came from inside the hut. "Have you evolved?"

"Sorry?" She leaned forward, towards the curtain.

"Doesn't sound like it..."

Ilse pulled the curtain slightly open, wanting to peer inside. She'd been taught from childhood to obey her curiosity, and this time her reward was more than abundant, as she ended up nearly bumping noses with the Watcher himself, who was clearly on his way out. She jumped a little, taking in his glorious difference. It was so much more striking close up. The huge, oddly shaped nose; the moonlight-like pallor of his skin, which never seemed to tan; his eyes displaying a variety and richness of color never awarded to any of her people. His excessive, unnecessary clothes. Ilse felt something that she wasn't entire sure what was stir inside of her. The Watcher. Was she truly ready for this?

"No smegging sense of privacy, any of you," the Watcher muttered. No, not evolved in the least. She was a perfectly typical one of those blighters - topless, shoeless, long braids down the back, lines from a near-continuous pointless grin etched on her face. Worst of all, utterly impulsive. No sense of boundaries. "What?" he asked, more loudly.

Ilse swallowed. "Watcher, I have brought you this gift." The brew was her own concoction; a well-tested and quite potent one, of which she was rather proud. Here, at least, she would encounter no problems, assuming she managed to get the Watcher to drink it.

The Watcher frowned and looked at the largish brown container in her hands. "Why?"

Ilse shrugged. "Because you are the Watcher, and we care for you."

"Beats the ever-loving smeg out of me why," the Watcher grumbled. He took the container from her. It was some kind of bottle. He looked at it doubtfully. The villagers loved to prank, almost as much as they loved drinking and having sex. Their respect for his station extended no farther than minor restraint in their practical jokes, so that he did not have to worry about waking up some morning strapped to a tall tree with his trousers on his head. But he wouldn't put it past an enterprising smegger to bring the game to him.

Ilse quirked one corner of her mouth upwards, as she realized the Watcher's unease. "It isn't poison." He was said to have an unusual fear of pranking-jokes. As though hurting someone - truly hurting them - would be funny! And poison was hard to make; you couldn't find it in nature. Usually, trapped animals were killed with an overdose of alcohol or blessed leaf and died - presumably - very happy.

The Watcher looked at her. She seemed to smile more broadly in response. He walked back into his hut, leaving the curtain open. What the smeg. He had not had a visitor in... hell, he had lost count, hadn't he? The worst part was, he could not remember how long ago he had lost count.

Well, that had been easier than expected. Not many people had been allowed inside this blessed place. Ilse hesitated for a moment, then walked boldly inside.

"I'll believe that when you drink it and don't die," the Watcher groused.

"All right." She could use a drink anyway. Ilse grabbed the bottle, took a hefty swig, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, grinning widely. It really was good stuff.

The Watcher raised one eyebrow. "Have you heard of cups?" he asked, disdainfully.

The interior really was not what Ilse had expected. The stories were exaggerated, of course, but surely someone could not live in a place as spartan as this? She tried not to show her confusion. What did she know of the Watcher's ways, anyway? That was what she was here to learn about. Oh. He had asked a question. About cups; did she know what cups were? Oh, a joke! She deadpanned. "Yes."

"Sarcasm is lost on you people, isn't it?" the Watcher sneered, rooting in a badly cobbled-together chest in the corner. It had been one of his early attempts at woodwork, before he gave it up. It was a miracle that it was still in one piece.

Oh, how silly. Did he think she didn't understand his joke? "You know how we treasure humor, Watcher," she laughed.

The Watcher found his two cups near the bottom of the chest. When had been the last time he had had anything to drink? Wait, he had lost track, hadn't he? He turned and held them up to the short, rodent-faced intruder. They were covered with filth and dust. The Watcher sighed, tossing them over his shoulder.

This was very odd behavior indeed, Ilse thought, as the cups hit the inside of the chest with a painful crash. Something was bound to have been broken. She frowned.

Pretty rich of her to sneer at his cups, the Watcher thought. He was willing to place a hefty bet that she had never used cutlery in her life. "It's been a while." He took the bottle from her hands.

"A while since what?"

"Anyone visited."

"Really?" Ilse asked, with badly concealed pride. She was a pioneer! She would be cheered by the others! She took a moment to mentally catalogue in which order she would consume the gifts of drink, food and smoking rolls that would be given her.

The Watcher looked at the bottle, then sniffed the opening. It smelled sharp, like drain cleaner, but not offensive at all. He took a very cautious sip. It went down like... no good comparison. He would have to use that liquid as the baseline for any future burning, searing feelings. He coughed, and his voice came out an octave higher than normal. "Yes..."

Ilse watched him eagerly. "Good, yes?"

"Yes..."

Ilse beamed. She had spent a lot of time mulling over which of her brew recopies she should use as a basis for this special one, and the preparation of it had taken forever. It looked like it had been worth it, though.

Once it had processed, the Watcher decided, it was actually quite good. Clean-tasting, and it left a delightful warmth in his belly that moved out to his extremities. He took a longer sip. This one went down much more smoothly than the first. His head started to float upwards, though. He shook it, then sat on his bed as his sense of balance took a breather.

Ilse looked dubiously at the straight-backed chair that was the only other seat in the hut. How could you sit in something like that? Keeping your back straight was for standing up, so you could take pride in your full height. But when you sat down you were supposed to be comfortable!

The Watcher took another swig. The warmth was now making his fingertips tingle. He was becoming hypersensitive to the smallest movement of his head. He moved it back and forth, experimentally. "Wow..."

She probably should sit down, Ilse decided, dodgy chair or not. She approached it nervously. The Watcher noted her unease. "Whon't bite." What was wrong with his voice? Ilse giggled.

Perhaps another drink would help his voice, the Watcher thought. He took a swig, and the room moved ever-so-slightly for a moment. Ilse was looking at him, earnestly, and it made him uneasy. He looked at her, then the bottle. Oh. She wanted some. Yes. He waved it at her. "You want..."

"Oh, yes, please!" Ilse accepted the bottle with enthusiasm. She hadn't gotten a good drink for days; she'd spent so long preparing. Of course, she must remember to only get nicely drunk, she thought, taking a carefully measured swig. There. That would do for the nicely; she'd see about the drunk later. All too soon, the Watcher pulled the bottle away from her, somewhat rudely, and took an unmeasured swig. She hid a smile.

"Did you make this?" he asked, his voice slurred.

What an odd question. The Watcher seemed to be full of those. "Who else would have?"

The Watcher looked out of the open curtain at the village in the distance. "Theresh a lot of you."

Trying to find a comfortable position, Ilse had settled for sitting back in the chair with her legs somewhat apart, her hands resting between them, arms stiff, dangling her legs slightly off the ground as she swung them back and forth. It wasn't perfect, but it was the best she could do with what she had to work with. "Yes, but there's only one of me. And I'm the one that came to you, Watcher."

The Watcher found his eyes drawn to the movement of her legs. The villagers had no sense of shame, and would often run around completely naked, so he was not surprised to note that she had nothing on under her skirt. He had never had a bedside view, however, and something in that bottle had made it much more interesting than it typically was. He tried not to stare. "Why?"

Noting the movement of his eyes, Ilse took a mental note. Well, he was an amazingly different looking man. She certainly wouldn't mind whatever he might have in mind. First things first, though. "I have..." she hesitated; how to put this? "Questions..."

"I dunno any of the answers," the Watcher replied, confidently. Omens, crop predictions, fertility rites - screw 'em. Not that they had ever asked him for any of those things, but he felt sure they would do so sooner or later. Bloody primitive things. This was presumably it.

"But you are the Watcher. You know about... the Sleeper. Of the story."

"No, I'm R..." The Watcher frowned. Where had that come from? Wasn't he the Watcher? "Maybe."

R? What was R? Ilse opened her eyes wider. This was new. She would have to pay close attention to this one, she realized. He was subtle. "The elders tell the story every night, but every night it's different."

The Watcher took another drink. He had become acutely aware of the muscles keeping him sitting upright. "Yesh, that'sh..." he frowned, faint images of a metal bed and grossly exaggerated stories drifting into his mind. He took a deep breath. "Like... him."

"I suppose I thought... well, that there would be a real story. You know. Somewhere. And we have just forgotten."

"Doesh it matter?" the Watcher asked, irately. If it had been forgotten, it had been for a damn good reason. And what did these people care? Life was always good, so as far as they were concerned, why remember what had been good in the past if it was just as good now? And why remember the bad if it sullied the good of now? The Watcher snorted. Smegging optimists.

Ilse looked down. "I don't know." It was hard to express her thoughts, though she had dwelled on them for a long time. It was more of a blurry sense of knowing there must be something else than anything else. "I suppose that's part of the reason why I want to know. I mean, I can't know it if is important or not if I don't know what it is, can I?"

This sentence confused the Watcher. He leaned back, pondering this. Perhaps more of what was in that bottle would help. He drank the rest of it. It went down amazingly smoothly, now, tickling his stomach delightfully. Now, back to what he had been doing. What was it?

The bottle was empty now. Ilse kept her face carefully neutral. This was good... for the most part. He'd been drinking it rather quickly, which wasn't always a wise thing to do. Still, he was the Watcher; he should know what he was doing.

The Watcher's voice was now distinctly slurred. "I barely remember. It's been..." Ah, but he had lost count, he had. He would have to start at the beginning. He held his empty hand out, counting on his fingers.

"But you do remember?" she asked, hopefully. He had to remember; all her plans, all her preparation would have been pointless otherwise.

The Watcher finished one batch of fingers, and started from the beginning of his hand again. It had been a while.

Ilse became dizzy, watching those fingers. They really were quite delightful fingers, so very unlike anything else in the world. He should consider siring children; women would fight for the privilege of mixing their genes with his. He would have his pick of the most radically different mutants.

The Watcher started from the beginning of the hand again. He hit the middle finger and lost count. Bloody hell! He'd have to start over. Or could he get away with an inexact count? "Er. A long time."

Ilse nodded. "Yes. That's why I wanted to ask you."

"His name." He should remember that. The template. The one he was trying not to think about. Why? He upended the bottle over his mouth, and was surprised and disappointed when nothing came out. Damn that cheating bottle to hell! He had had just a sip, and now it was gone! He dropped the hand that held it, and flopped down on the bed. Syllables danced in his head. A dark, cold, smelly prison. "Cloist... Cust... Leftist... Lish... Listy..." He closed his eyes and frowned.

Ilse cocked her head askew as words that sounded vaguely like names trickled slowly out over the Watcher's lips. "What?" She moved closer to the edge of the chair, wishing there was a way to open her ears wider.

Some internal floodgate broke. A grinning, smug, happy-go-lucky, irritating face. The Watcher suddenly jerked back up to seated position. "Lister!"

The name! The Sleeper's name! That in itself was worth at least a couple of barrels of dried magic root. Ilse tasted the name, awed. "Lister..." she repeated, slowly.

"That smegging gerbil-faced goit." The Watcher had no problem remembering that part.

Ilse nodded. "Like us." On that, the stories were always clear. The Watcher had attempted to create a race in his image, but instead there was brought forth a people of gerbil-faced goits, and they spread out, and claimed the land as theirs. And the Watcher watched them, and said nothing, for thus was his way. She had always wondered what a 'gerbil' was.

The Watcher's mouth twisted. "Just like you." Everything that drove me batty about him, he thought, is echoed in you people.

It was true, then? They had kept the Sleeper's spirit alive in themselves? Ilse grew excited. "Really? Are we really like him?"

The Watcher looked at her. Images that he had forced into a dark corner of his mind were now at hand, and he ran through them. The villagers varied in appearance quite a bit - their only homogeneity being their smegging chirpy natures. This one... looked frighteningly like his memories of Lister. Warm brown skin, full cheeks, brown eyes that were too dark and expressive for being the balls of fluid he knew them to be. "Well," he replied, "a lot like."

Ilse leaned forward. Her braids fell from behind her back and slightly obscured the right side of her face. The Watcher had seen Lister with his clothes off a few times. Why? "You have nicer breasts," he slurred. Ilse giggled. Well, there were two of them, they didn't appear to have abnormal growths, and they were there. The Watcher could not remember having higher standards for breasts than that. "Not bigger, mind."

Ilse frowned. "Men don't have breasts." Was the Sleeper female? Had the stories been wrong about that? But the Watcher had said 'he'... She looked at her own breasts, in all their commonality. Slightly larger than a grown man's fist, round, dark nipples. Nothing special. Nice? Well, she'd been told that once or twice before. The Watcher was polite, if nothing else.

"Yesh, they do. Some." For a reason the Watcher could not understand, the word Hollister came to mind.

Nice, Ilsa thought again, and poked her breasts. They resisted just right, and she giggled. She'd been with one or two women when she was younger, and their breasts had been just like hers too. There was something safe about that. But a man with breasts like her? She giggled again.

The Watcher raised his eyebrows. Running around with their clothes off, playing with themselves whenever the mood struck them. He had been living with them for... he pulled himself back from that line of thought. He had been living with them for a smegging long time, and he still was not used to it. He hoped he never would be. He had decency. "You people..."

"Us people what?" Ilse asked, cheerfully.

"No shame."

Ilse had expected new ideas, but not new words. There were so many of them! She tried to pronounce this one, and failed miserably. "Sh..ame?"

"Yesh," the Watcher replied, growing irritated. "It's shat thing that keeps you from running around without shirts on. It'sh what keeps you from partying all.. smegging... night."

Ilse shrugged again. "It's too hot for shirts." She didn't understand why the Watcher looked pointedly at his strange blue clothes, but it was probably not important. Other things were much more important, at any rate. She leaned forward again, excited with the prospect of learning. "Please, Watcher, tell me more about the Sleeper!"

The Watcher sat up, thinking of the elders. The sodding old farts who told windy tales around the fire. He adopted their style. Somehow, the bottle had lubricated his memory, and he thought of bunks and curries and a strange voice with elongated vowels. He had not thought of them in... he stopped that line of thought. "And lo, he did cheweth of his toenails and spittith them on bedsheets."

Ilse raised an eyebrow. Perhaps she'd made the brew too potent?

"And did with his guitar make a most awful noise. And all were struck dumb." The Watcher nodded. Yes, that was Lister. Their smegging Sleeper.

"I don't know all those words," Ilse sighed in frustration. This was not what she'd expected at all. She was being told the story, but she couldn't understand it. She was going to fail, and everyone would tease her endlessly!

"I jusht bet." If there was one thing to be grateful for on this world, it was that musical instruments had never really caught on in that society. And most of the villagers had rather sweet voices, so their frequent all-night acapella sessions were bearable.

There was, Ilse realized, a gap between the Watcher and herself. A gap of words; a gap of understanding. No matter how he told her the story, she probably would not understand. But there had to be more; there had to be something he could tell her! "But was he... What was he like? Was he funny? Curious? Could he play good pranks?" The virtues, the traits they honored in one another, what they felt was important; they had to come from somewhere!

"He thought so." So the goit wanted the smegging story, did she. He sifted through dusty memories, leaning back on the bed again. "First, I died..."

Not just words, but ideas; concepts kept them apart now. Ilse frowned deeply, leaning back. "I don't understand..." There was something disconcerting about the tone of the Watcher's voice. Weary, as though he'd seen too much; too much to remember it all and stay sane. That was a very frightening thought indeed, to a girl like Ilse, in a world like this.

"I thought it wash a bit of a downer, really. He was the last one alive. Now there's a whole smegging pack of you."

The other place. Realization hit Ilsa triumphantly in the chest. "Where you were from? He was the only person in the... the place? The place you came from?"

How smegging dense could a person be? "Yes, he was the only smegging goit left alive of the smegging human race!"

Words again, pushing understanding firmly out of her reach. "I..."

"Look..." The Watcher sat up again. It took a great deal of his attention. Once he was upright, he extended his hand. The smallest motion seemed to upset his balance, so he extended it, and one forefinger, with great care. "I died."

Ilse looked at that hand, still frowning. Died? She'd seen dead people; she'd helped to bury them many times. They had not looked like the Watcher. Their hands had been stiff and cold, not elegant and expressive.

"Brought back. Like this. Keep him sane." Another point. Another finger. Careful, Watcher. Unfold, gently... there. "He gets all smegging shot up. I drop him in the stasis pod."

Brought back, Ilse thought. From where? Death? But that was impossible! She gave him a long, hard look.

Oh, dear lord. These people were just as simple as Lister had been, weren't they? "You goiting grok a stasis pod?" he snapped. "No time passee." He started to hunt for another finger to extend.

Many of the stories praised the Watcher for his cleverness in words and deed, but Ilse was not impressed. Didn't he understand that if his words meant nothing to her, repeating them in a loud, clear voice could not possibly help? She gave him a slightly insulted look.

The Watcher was too focused on extending his favorite finger to notice. "We crash here. I try to clone me off to populate this planet. But the smegging clone kit needs real DNA, not an electronic copy." Another finger. This story was becoming quite a workout. The Watcher swayed with the effort of extending all of his fingers except for the pinky, but managed to pull it off. "So I clone him from one of his smegging toenail clippings that are scattered everywhere. Do you undershtand that?"

She must have put a wrong herb or two in that brew, Ilse thought. This man was completely smegging insane.

"Every. Smegging. Where." He shook his head. "Toenails."

Ilse grasped at the word she understood. "What's wrong with toenails?"

"Bits and pieces of them! Little.. curls... of kera... kear... keratin... in my bed..." He took a deep breath. "Itch like a bugger!"

"He was in your bed? Were you lovers?"

This caught the Watcher mid-breath, and he startled, hiccupping. "No! He spat them on my bed!"

"Oh."

"Jesus smegging Christ..." Lovers? King of the grease stain, the five-minute fart, the 1812 Overture belch? Enough. "Where was I..." he muttered. "Oh, yes." Easy, now - he had all the fingers, so he just had to extend his hand. "Cloning works. Yippee. Maybe I can evolve a civilization that can fix him up." He remembered this all too well. "The clone comes out of the pod, and I ask him if he's about ready to evolve. 'Oh, eh, what's the hurry?' he asks."

Ah, that word Ilse knew! "We are a civilization," she proclaimed proudly. Civilization was important, the Watcher has said at the onset, so the stories told. And they had made one. They cared for the young, the elderly and the sick. They taught the youngsters skills and let the elders tell the Story. No one was hungry. No one was alone unless they wanted to be. They had achieved much.

"Hooch and smoke and party isn't a civilization!" the Watcher barked. "Won't smegging heal him up, now, will it?" He took a deep breath to rant more, but the breath stuck in his throat. Oh, smeg. His mouth fell open. The last fuzzy mental screens had come down. He remembered. He smegging remembered why he was here.

"Then what is?" Ilse asked, startled. The Watcher looked as though he really had died now, or was about to. His mouth was half-open in what looked like a scream, but nothing came out until he finally spoke. His eyes were oddly glassy, making their strange colors stand out in sharper relief.

"He's off in that smegging stasis pod... hole in him... hundreds of years now..." Whatever had been in that bottle, it was overflowing, and starting to leak out of his eyes. Oh, smegging hell, they were all dead, Lister almost dead...

Ilse nodded, slowly. This too was in the story. She had not really thought about its significance before now. The Sleeper was a person. Someone cared for him. The Watcher cared for him. "Yes. He must be whole again before our purpose is done." She saw the Watcher's tears and wondered.

"Your purpose? Your smegging purpose?" The Watcher staggered to his feet. He had been watching them for... a very long time, and had yet to discover a single non-hedonistic, non-impulsive drive in them.

"Oishmegheid?" Had she said something wrong? What in her words could possibly have angered him?

"Get drunk and fornicate? What do you... need him for... to do that?" His grammar had gone the way of his balance, it seemed.

Perhaps there was some etiquette, some sort of code from wherever it was the Watcher and Sleeper was from that she had not observed correctly. Not sure what else to do, Ilse suggested what was freely given among her people as a gesture of kindness and hospitality. "I can have sex with you, if you like..."

The Watcher choked again, and his eyes widened. Did someone just suggest sex with a chipmunk? This was too much for his brain to process, and he dropped back onto the bed.

"I mean, if that's what you want." She looked at him expectantly, hoping she had not offended again. Perhaps the offer had come too late?

"I want... Lisher.. back." The Watcher felt empty, defeated. After all of this... long time, the only thing they had discovered was hooch and inventive new ways to copulate. "And you shmeggers won't evolve."

Evolution; another familiar word. Ilse nodded. "Yes. Our purpose. You gave it to us, long ago." None of them knew what it meant; it had never been explained to them.

"Fat lot you did with it," the Watcher spat.

"Then tell us!" she replied, eagerly. "Tell me! How do we..." she rolled the word around on her tongue, "evolve?"

"I don't know! Build things! Get smarter!" A phrase leapt into his head. "Up the ziggurat!"

"Up..." Oh, what was the use. He was speaking another language. She started again. "What should we build?"

"Anything... anything but these sodding huts. Spaceports, hospitals..."

Things other than huts? What good was building something you couldn't live in? Were they doing it wrong? "What's wrong with them?"

What's wrong with them? What's right? How the smeg is this going to heal a hole in someone's sodding chest? "Oh, it was too much to ask from Lister's sodding clones, wasn't it!" the Watcher bellowed.

Equally frustrated, Ilse got out of chair and moved over to the bed on her knees. "I want to help! I just don't understand how!" She put her hand on his knee, wanting to comfort him, but how? He didn't respond like anyone she had ever met before.

The Watcher was drained. "Neither do I," he had to admit. He had no skills that were of use here, no ability to influence. Why should they evolve? He gave them no drive or incentive. "Shink I'm stuck here."

Stuck. But that implied he did not want to stay. Which meant... "And you want to go away. With him. To that place."

The Watcher concentrated. Images of metal and plastic, sickly lights, and a disembodied head floated in his mind. "That place. Red Dwarf." He tasted the name. It felt familiar, but long-unused.

Ilse tasted it, too. "Red Dwarf..." The place they came from. Where they wanted to return.

The Watcher looked at the wall over his bed. It was covered with marks made from a burnt stick. Ilse leaned her elbows on the edge of the bed, taking her hand off of his knee, and watched in fascination. "Lost track at three hundred... twentyshix," the Watcher muttered.

The tiny marks were unreal. All exactly the same length, in a line like a row of planted chewing-roots, but much more tidy. The wall looked almost black where they were, at a distance. Ilse stared. "Are those days?" Why would anyone want to count days? There were so many of them... Had there been so many in her life?

Days? Smegging days? What kind of a game did she think this was? "Years."

Ilse's eyes widened. "Years..." she whispered. Her mind would not accept the concept.

"I've been here a while," the Watcher replied, acidly. "I think a little cabin fever is justified."

Ilse looked at him. "But you are young." The lines on his face were few, and his hair wasn't even shot through with grey.

The watcher tapped the symbol on his head. "I'm a hologram."

"Hologram." A jumble of meaningless sounds. Repeating them didn't help.

The Watcher sighed, impatiently. As dense as those scones that they cooked in the ashes, this one was. "I told you, I died!"

The stories she would be able to tell if she could only understand this! Ilsa concentrated hard. As she studied his face, something struck her. "That thing... on your head; is that what it means? That you are dead-but-alive?"

Ah, the Watcher remembered one good trick, at least. "I'll show you..." He concentrated, willing himself to incoporeality.

As Ilse stared, the Watcher seemed to... flicker, as though he was an image reflected in shallow water that had been disturbed. When he became still again, his clothes had changed, and were now... an equally striking red? Ilse gasped, falling away from the bed, scuttling over to the chair and grabbing its legs for support. What was this madness?

The bottle that he was holding fell through his hand and hit the bed with a dull thump. "Oops." The Watcher gave it a sad look. It had been good to him.

"Watcher..." Ilse clutched the chair, her eyes following the falling bottle. If he touched her, would she flicker and fade away too?

The Watcher frowned at her. Another piece of the puzzle had been shaken loose, and was rattling around in his head. "R..."

There was that 'R' again, but Ilse had no time to think about that now. "What is wrong with you?" Was he really dead? But if he was, how could he walk among them? There was nothing after you died, nothing but emptiness and the eternal dark.

"Ri..." Dammit, it was there! Just out of his grasp! He made a supreme effort. "Rimmer." Yes. That was him. He was Rimmer. He was smegging Rimmer! Not Watcher, not Oishmeghied. Rimmer!

"Are you sick?" If there was an illness around that could change the color of your clothes and make things fall through you, Ilse wanted to know about it! The worst she'd ever had was a cold.

"No, it'sh you smeggers who are sick." Rimmer sighed. "Running around half-naked, not a care in the world - no gravity! No sense of duty! No class!"

This can't be happening, Ilse thought. She renewed her grip on the chair, trying to think, trying to calm down.

The bottle. Good things were within. Things that made him feel... buzzy. Rimmer switched back to hard-light and picked up the bottle. He tried to drink, but was surprised that it was empty. He sighed.

The Watcher flickered again, and his clothes turned back into blue. It didn't seem half as strange the second time around. Relaxing, Ilse observed him for a moment, then got back to her feet. She could not understand this. He was from a different world. Everything about him was alien to her. How could she possibly have thought he could make her understand the Sleeper? He could not even make her understand himself. But there was no threat in him. She saw him shake the bottle upside down, and turned. No, there was no threat here. Only sadness.

"Dija... get your answers?" he asked.

"You've made me think, Watcher." And she was not done thinking. Perhaps she would have something to tell the others after all.

"That's a first," Rimmer grumbled.

She brushed her skirt off, straightening. "I will tell this story to the elders. We will all think on it."

"All of you. Yeah, that'll be a real first." He flopped onto the bed, face-first, his head in pillow. He was fitting the memories that had been shaken loose back into order. It was a dizzying task. One fact was rather glaring, however. "You know," he said, his voice muffled by the pillow. Ilse hesitated. "Ish been over nine hundred yearsh since I made love." He closed his eyes and breathed in a breath, one that turned to a buzz as he started to drift off.

As she was about to leave, the Watcher's words caught Ilsa unawares. This was absurdity on a whole different level. "That doesn't make sense." If he had not been utterly alone... and he had not been, for the Sleeper had been with him, he'd said so. Why had they not turned to one another for comfort? If he had wanted for closeness here, why had he not simply asked someone? You didn't deny a starving person food. Why would you deny sex to someone who needed it?

"Wha?" Rimmer asked, floating back to consciousness.

She sighed. No use. No use at all. "Never mind." And yet, so pointless; so senseless to suffer when there was no need! She grumbled; "I did offer..."

Rimmer looked at her, blearily. Young, round face. Easy smile. Braids. "You look like him. Nicer breasts. But like.... when we met."

"Yes, you said." She turned half-way towards him, catching his swaying, troubled face in the corner of her eye. He didn't look dead. He didn't look old either. He looked sad and lonely.

Rimmer was rambling, now. "He was shmegging gerbil-faced optimistic, too. Look where it got him. But he never asked to shleep with me."

Never lovers. But not, perhaps, for lack of wanting? Ilse smiled. "He should have. You're a gorgeous man." He was. It wasn't just the odd proportions of his body; his too-long legs and his slender frame, or his coloration, or the strange tones of his voice. There was something inside of him, something he was not allowing to roam free.

Rimmer frowned. "He didn... like me.." He felt drunkenly plaintive and pathetic, but his memories of Lister were becoming clearer the better he organized them, and one fact was inescapable. Lister had never called him gorgeous. Molecule mind, smeghead, dumbarse, sodding bastard, but never anything remotely like 'gorgeous.'

Yes, there was something there. And if she could see it... Ilse turned back towards him, taking a few steps towards the bed again. "But you said he was like me."

"Your hish clones. Yer all a lot likeim."

Ilse crossed her arms under her breasts. Rimmer lifted his head. Yes, they were breasts. Decently formed, not too big. He had seen any number of them running around outside, over the centuries. But he had yet to see them at such close quarters, and they improved on acquaintance.

"Well, if he was like me, then he thought you were gorgeous." She nodded, as if to punctuate. Simple logic. Frankly, she didn't see how anyone could fail to find this man attractive. He had a way of making you want to see more of him. Hadn't she been on her way out?

"Maybe yer a myu.. tant."

She blushed. "Oh... I wish." She was common; all of her line were. People had told her parents to get their children sired by others, but they were in love. And love was the greatest virtue of all.

Rimmer's brow furrowed. Oh, that's right - they went smegging nuts over mutants in this society. "I don understhant you pe...ple."

"The birthers say I have no mutant traits at all."

"Nutters."

"I'm plain," she said, dissatisfied. It shouldn't upset her; everyone was worth the same, after all - and was she not about to become a Chosen One? What did looks matter? And none of her lovers had complained. Still, for someone who loved variety as much as she, being so common was almost painful.

Rimmer's eyebrows made the long, slow trek upwards. She looked... so like Lister. "Not... the ad... hective I'd use."

Oh really? Being found attractive always made her tingle, and he did look amazing... "Really?"

Rimmer had a very novel and fresh idea to express, and he did so with certainty "Y'r... a lot like him. Nicer breasts, though."

Ilse giggled loudly, dropping her arms and putting them on her hips, instead. "Yes, you said." Oh indeed, he was adorable! He may not have asked, but sometimes you got so weak from need that you couldn't catch a breath to call for aid. Smiling warmly, she walked up to bed. She got down on her knees, and grabbed the Watcher's hand, carefully. She would help him, if he was willing.

Rimmer carefully turned himself on his side, looking at the grasped hand. It suddenly struck him that he had something very important to communicate, something that she might not have grasped. He needed to tell her. "I should warn you. I shink I'm... just a little... drunk."

Ilse kissed his hand gently, then looked up. "And?" What did being drunk have to do with having sex? Well, except that it might be more fun?

Rimmer's mind blanked out. He repeated the last phrase. "Just a little."

"Everyone is a little drunk." The saying came automatically, without thinking. She realized too late that the Watcher might not have heard it.

In case she had not understood him, Rimmer tried to sign 'little' with two fingers. He had no success, and realized it was because she was holding his hand. He used the other hand, then tried to remember why he was doing that.

Yes, you dear sweet man, Ilse thought; you are quite drunk. She began to see why he'd tried to explain it. She had never heard of a man who had trouble having sex if he was drunk, but again; this man was very different. It was strangely hard to remember that, despite how obvious it was. She could still leave, of course. Sexual comfort should never be forced. But the thing was, she had to admit, that she couldn't leave him now even if she wanted to. And she really, really didn't want to.

Rimmer looked at her face, feeling like he should share a novel observation with her. "You're a lot like him." He didn't notice Ilse's stifled giggle. He grabbed her braid and looked at it. Not a proper plait - a twisted, unwashed rasta plait. Strange, it didn't feel or smell unwashed. Nothing was right with these people; they couldn't even get the smell right! "Same face. Same braids. Same smegging braids."

"Yes, I have braids." She smiled, hesitated, then reached out with her free hand to touch his hair, very carefully. You never knew with this man; he might just disappear on her. "And you don't." Her smile grew warmer as he and his hair completely failed to grow intangible.

"No, I have a senshible haircut." Yes, he had warned Lister about the dangers of a hippie cut, and look where it had landed him. "It's hair for... action."

Ilse giggled, then snorted "Is it?" She stroked those loose curls gently, marveling at the texture of his hair. There were mutants with such hair, but none of them had ever looked twice in her direction.

Rimmer shook his head, closing his eyes. "You laugh.. the same. Used to annoy the smeg out of me."

"What, as him?" She was, she realized, enjoying herself rather a lot. Having sex with the Watcher! Well, she thought, someone had to do it. And no one had thought to before. The poor man.

"Shpill lager on my book. Giggle. Snort. Mucusy." He touched her cheek, wondering if that felt like Lister's, too. But he had no way of knowing, because he had never touched Lister's cheek, had he?

Ilse sighed. "You are lovely. I can't believe he never made a move on you." She mumbled, "Silly man..." Silly indeed. Silly, and not a little stupid. To be blessed with something like this, and waste it?

Rimmer frowned. "Me? Yeh..." No, Lister had never said anything vaguely like 'lovely' about him. Odd, what that randomization program would stick in.

"Nuh..." She licked her lips. "Well... you, too." You couldn't deny that he was more than a little odd. Her eyes sparkled, relishing the anticipation of what was to come.

Silly hardly seemed a strong enough word. "For getting shtuck on a planet with his smegging clones and him smegging frozen away like a side of beef." He looked at her braid.

"You'll get him back," she said, with a soft whisper, moving her hand down to stroke his cheek. If he could make himself intangible, surely he could do anything. Didn't he have any faith in himself at all?

"When pigsh fly," he replied, with conviction. He shivered as her hand crossed his cheek. He moved his hand from her cheek to her shoulder.

That shiver was delightful; Ilse felt she could almost taste it. She moved her hand around to stroke the hair at the back of his neck, tickling the tiny curls there, hair that felt almost like her own, but softer. She leaned over him, her breasts brushing against his chest, willing him to reach out and touch them. In truth, she wondered why he hadn't done so already. This too was exciting, in a way. She planted a very soft kiss on his lips, not wanting to overwhelm. After all, if it had been - she glanced at the series of marks on the wall - that long, he was more or less a virgin again, wasn't he?

Rimmer touched the top of her breast, very tentatively. This... this girl-Lister. "I can't remember if he had nicer breasts." He had hardly noticed, when they had changed bodies. Afterwards... he never had the chance.

"Don't worry about it..." she whispered. Why couldn't he lose himself in the now? Would he be talking and thinking all the while? That would be tiresome.

Rimmer turned all of the way over onto his back, nervously, as she climbed onto the bed and straddled him, putting her braids behind her shoulders. Rimmer touched her breasts, gently, with both hands - just his fingertips. Like Lister's? No, they couldn't be.

The touch was too light; too teasing. Ilse sighed deeply, took his hands, and pressed them hard against herself, pushing against them with her body; moving like she wanted him to move against her.

Rimmer grabbed them, then kneaded them like bread. Women's breasts. Visions flashed before his eyes, of a befuddled McGruder, of an unreal simulation of her, of Nirvanah's cool face. His brain promptly ran out of visions of breasts he had touched.

Hunger. She could feel the hunger, radiating from him. It was irresistible, like the rest of his enigmatic man, and it felt fantastic. Ilse groaned deeply, wondering if anyone outside could hear them; what must they think? The thought amused and aroused her equally.

"Nine... hundred... something." It didn't seem like that long. Well, maybe it did. He was achingly hard, but that somehow seemed to be an unimportant part of this situation.

Ilse leaned forward, kissing him deeply; wanting to drink all of him in, to taste this strange person who was dead-yet-alive. If this is what happened after you died, she wouldn't mind it all that much.

Rimmer sighed and kissed back, tasting grass and sunshine and a faint tang of her spirits. "I dunno.. if you taste like him," he muttered into her mouth. "Never got to try." No. Never would.

Ilse smiled through the kiss. "You are wearing too many clothes," she mumbled. They had always seemed absurd to her; now, doubly so.

Vaguely realizing his horniness, in a confused way, he raised his hands and started to undo the clasps on his jacket.

"And you wonder why we don't wear much clothes," Ilse purred, lustfully. Clothes got in the way of everything that was important. Sleeping, drinking, and her favorite thing of all...

"So you can get men to shleep with you. Works." He tried to get out of his jacket, and had to rise slightly.

Eager for more, Ilse hitched up her skirt, enjoying the feel of those strange, soft trousers rubbing against her. She let it drop and ran her hands over his exposed undershirt. The fabric was as different as his erection, which was longer and thinner than she was used to. There seemed to be a theme there; nothing about him was like anything she'd seen or heard or - oh yes - felt before.

The jacket disappeared as Rimmer tossed it away. Sensation was starting to demand its due, and he raised his hips to rub against her. He struggled out of his undershirt, and it, too disappeared as soon as it left his body. He started to lick her nipple. Larger, firmer than it should be, he thought absently, although it did feel delightful.

Ilsa paid no notice to his disappearing clothing. She threw her head back, pressing harder against his groin. No more thoughts now, just feeling. Pay attention, Watcher; this is how its done!

Rimmer pulled her close at the crotch, rubbing her up and down against him. He licked her nipples, enjoying the sensation, while still feeling, in the back of his mind, not right...

Ilse moaned as he bucked, grabbing his shoulders to hold on, wanting him inside her now. Right now, curse it! She moved with him a few times, then tried to pull down his trousers, gasping and shuddering at the feel of the thin, tight fabric sliding over taut muscles. All right, so maybe there was something to this clothes business after all.

Rimmer latched onto her shoulders. Strong, solid shoulders. They felt right. He licked and nipped at them. But they moved away, all too quickly.

Nice though they were, the trousers had to go, and luckily they put up no fight as Ilse pulled them down to his calves, where they hit his boots and stopped moving. She laughed happily as his erection waved in the breeze, up for grabs. She would kiss it if that wouldn't delay her other, more urgent plans. Instead, she moved back up him, grabbing his chin and kissing him deeply while lowering herself onto that erect, oh-so uncommon member.

Rimmer whimpered as she slid herself onto him. He tasted a fresh breeze and spring, and shouldn't he be tasting stale air and cigarettes? This wonderful warm wetness, too; where did it come from?

The wonderful feeling of fullness and lightning-bolt of sheer pleasure zinging into her as she slid all of the way down was the same, despite all those unfamiliarities, and Ilse smiled. She felt herself slotting into place, marveling, for a second, at the way two puzzle pieces such at odds could still fit together so smoothly. She broke the kiss and licked his lips, as she started to ride him very slowly.

Slowly would not do. Rimmer grabbed her hips and started to flop like a fish, pushing up into her to the point of leaving the bed slightly. "Sh.. been.. forever..." Incoherent things were coming out of his mouth, a fine match to his incoherent thoughts. "Just... like him..."

"That's... all right..." Ilse panted. Not the same, her brain thrilled, sending all kinds of pleasurable quivers through her. Unlike. Unlike anything else.

Rimmer grabbed her with one arm around the back of her waist, and one around her back . A strong back, a solid waist. These breasts between her and him. He kissed her, tasting spring and carefree young woman, and threw his head back. He yanked her in, very tightly, and bucked to shake the rickety bed.

No, hang on, thought Ilse, panting frantically, suddenly confused. His movements were too frantic, too soon. Even the virgins she had been with had never moved so quickly along. The wildness was intoxicating, and she felt herself being swept up in it, but it couldn't stop so soon! She had to try to slow it down, but she couldn't, not with this unbearable uninhibited wildness.

Spring air, a solid brown body, a cheeky grin, but now it was blood and grease and stale, too-long-recycled air, shrieks and panic and frantic fear. "Dave..." Rimmer moaned.

Well, that certainly wasn't her name. It wasn't the name of anyone she knew either. His lover? But she'd been certain... Oh. Thought was... difficult. Even without this confusion. Oh. Yes. Yes.

Rimmer grabbed her so hard that his nails dug into her skin, coming with a groan and a whine.

Yelping slightly at the feel of those nails, Ilse froze. As far as she was concerned, confused had left the area, and was now lost, asking stray animals on the path for directions.

Rimmer bucked into her, riding the aftershocks, not letting go. Smeg. No.

Ilse shook with frustration and tension. Curse it, no! What was this? Not even plants had sex this quickly; she'd seen insects hang around in flowers for longer than this. She tried to move with the aftershocks, but it was all too obvious what they were and what they meant. He didn't let go, though. Right, this wasn't different, it was just plain weird.

Rimmer bent his head down, kissing her like he was drowning, and she was the only air. Her. This girl-Dave.

Ilse kissed him back, quite desperately, not that it helped much. She'd been relieved at first that he didn't fuss about and try to poke around her bits like he was looking for lost treasure (that annoyed her to no end), but now she'd take anything, anything! She moved on top of him despite herself, knowing it would probably hurt, but what the shit did he expect? But as she pushed and groaned, and tried to hold back, she felt... But no. Couldn't be. But... Yes. Yes? The Watcher was... re-firming inside her. So soon? Astonished was not an adequate word, but Ilse didn't have time to come up with one that was. She whooped and laughed, losing herself in frantic movement.

Rimmer kept his eyes closed. "Never... did this with..." No, he had never kissed him or held him or made love... so how did he know it was not just like this, after all? He choked off the rest of that sentence in a deep kiss.

More, more! Ilse's entire world had become one of want, of lust for more. She wished she didn't need to take time to breathe as she moved even more quickly. This particular difference was the biggest turn-on yet; she was close to coming just from the sheer novelty.

Rimmer did not loosen his grip. "Can't... remember." He could remember too much and to little. Why had he remembered all of this? It would take him forever to forget all of this. He would have to write a note to remind himself not to trust girls with offerings. Pin it to the wall.

Feeling... had to... skies, the sensation! Ilse pressed her breasts together, pushing them against the Watcher's face, his mouth, somewhere in that general direction, hoping that he'd do whatever he'd done to them earlier. She needed... Curses, she was close!

He could not avoid them. So distinctive, in taste, in feel, the softness, the resiliency of the nipples. He licked and sucked at them, as she seemed to enjoy it, keeping his eyes closed. Wetness was seeping out of his eyes, as well, and some part of him noted that her breasts were becoming a mess of damp.

Ilse moved faster, ever faster, feeling like she was about to break the bed with the vibrations of her frantic rocking, but soon enough she came with both a scream and a whimper. The Watcher bit her as she came, and she pressed against him, faint, disoriented, trying to catch her breath.

The sunlight was too bright, the laughter in the distance too loud; it pressed on his head, forcing its way through his eyelids, filtering through her moans. He pressed her tight, raised his legs - still bound together awkwardly at his calves with his pants - and thrust in a staccato burst, throwing his head back and huffing like a train with too little power trying to climb a steep hill.

Ilse felt faint and tried to hold on, knowing she had to, especially after this, but couldn't help collapsing against his shoulder as she finally felt him shudder under her.

Rimmer fell flat onto the bed, his grip going as flaccid as the bit of him that was in her. He sniffled. Allergies? Ilse fell with him. She shifted, and he slid out of her with a dull plop. He squeezed his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Noises in his head, now; the laughter in the distance, the screech of collapsing metal, explosions.... he drew in a shuddering breath.

Ilse shifted slightly, feeling awkward. It was strange to lie with someone who did not share her bursts of laughter; someone who did not play as much as follow a strict program, walking from one stone to another across a river. She slid off of him, wondering that he didn't even seem to react as she did so. It was painfully obvious that he was trying to breathe slowly and regularly. She patted his chest, gently.

Rimmer twitched at the touch. Stubby fingers. Short nails. "Ehh..." he whimpered.

She kissed his cheek. "It's all right." She slipped gently out of bed, ending up on her knees beside it, holding his hand, not thinking. All thoughts seemed to have been drained out of her, as had his juices. Nothing slipped from between her thighs; which, while a welcome change, was just unnatural.

Rimmer shivered. All right. It was all smegging wrong. He dropped the hand that was holding his nose and looked up at the thatch roof. Water was trickling out of his eyes. "It's... shallover. Isn't it."

"What is?" she asked, quietly.

"Everything." What a stupid, smegging half-arsed plan. Evolve a society to fix Lister for you. Oh, yes, you're so good at creating societies, Rimsy! Why hadn't it worked? Three hundred years, at least; they had no interest in civilization. Smegging hospitals. The pod had a small matter converter that could power it indefinitely on small amounts of local matter, and whatever his light bee used, it got plenty of it around here. They could be here until the world ended. Then what? Float between the stars with a smegging Listersickle?

Ilse felt absurdly, oddly maternal. How fitting it would be if this encounter was to leave her with child? But something inside her told her that would not be so. It was the wrong time of the month, at any rate. Pity. Their features would go well together. "No, you sweet man."

Rimmer turned on his side, facing the wall. She had no smegging clue. Little simpering Lister look-alike. He tried to breathe deep breaths. Although he didn't need oxygen, they were supposed to be calming. They were overrated.

Ilse sighed, standing with a final squeeze of his hand. They spoke different language indeed, and there was no interpreter at hand. "Such a beautiful man," she mumbled, taking in his naked form, though that was not what she was referring to.

Rimmer lay there, facing the wall, his pants at his calves, his bum pointing out. He was emotionally exhausted, and between that, the liquor, and the sex, he fell into an uneasy sleep.

Had she helped at all? Alone and saddened was no way to leave a man. Ilse gave the sheet he was lying on a forlorn look, and tried to figure out how to get that over and across him. She had to give up; it would have been a largely pointless gesture, anyhow. She gave his side a gentle, loving stroke, adjusted her skirt, and headed towards the door. She'd come for the true story of the Sleeper, and she had gotten it. Not in so many words, but yes, she felt sure that she had gotten it. Ilse cast a worried look over her shoulder at the Watcher's whiffly snore.

Outside, sunshine and sweet laughter from afar greeted her. It was like returning to consciousness after a long, disturbing dream. She thought of the Sleeper, and the Watcher, and in the bright sun, her worried look turned into a determined, wide, and happy grin.

Ilse hurried towards the hut of the Chosen Ones. She had a story to tell.


"Your pleasure and pain responses will remain intact..."

Rimmer groaned and rubbed his sore head. Sod Legion. Why couldn't he have kept the pleasure responses intact and skipped the pain? Would that have been too much to ask? His head throbbed in a monotone tom-tom of dull, achy hangover. Smeg him to hell, he had gotten far too drunk. He had spent a good chunk of time carefully forgetting about all of the things that he couldn't change, and one blasted drunken night had undone all of that. He would have to start all over again, and make sure he never got drunk again.

Or slept with the local girls.

He rolled over and stuck his face in the pillow, stifling an agonized wail. What the smeg had she been on about? What the smeg had he been on about? Missing Lister, loving Lister, kissing Lister? The lunacy of this place was contagious. Nothing for it but to just... smegging... forget it. Pretend it never happened. She would do the same, he was sure. Those stupid sodding villagers ran around, boinking everything that moved (and a few things that didn't), and nothing ever stuck with them.

Rimmer looked up. He had slept a good five hours, at least. The heat of midday had given way to a cool night, the night creatures (all very small and very benign) making quiet noises of a rustly and chirpy nature outside. A little fresh air might help with his hangover. Rimmer rolled out of bed, pulling his trousers up and willing his undershirt and jacket back into existence. He walked outside, rubbing the side of his head and moaning gently.

He stopped in his tracks. About a dozen women stood outside, all wearing the silly smegging braids of the Chosen Ones. Their hands were placed firmly on their hips and their backs were ramrod straight, their heads thrown back in what had become - disgustingly - their traditional greeting for him. "Oishmegheid!" they cried, in chorus.

Rimmer frowned until the sides of his mouth touched his boots. "What the swut do you want?" They were happy and giggly, from the teenagers to the middle-aged women, which was hardly a shock. But he felt an odd tension in their mirth.

One of them stepped forward, an angular-faced girl with pale skin. "We have come to honor your love for the Sleeper, Oishmegheid!" Behind her, a younger one, nineteen at most, piped up shyly, "We offer ourselves to you." Both women beamed at him, as though they were offering a plate of that ridiculously sweet fruit that grew everywhere.

The hangover started to throb in Rimmer's head like a jackhammer. "Oh, for fuck's sake!" he groaned.

Sporadic giggles and meaningful looks greeted his comment. He set his mouth and waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Run home. All of you... gerbils."

Another young girl, this one with coal-black skin and oddly contrasting light brown eyes, gave him a confused look. "But we are home, Watcher."

"Then run away from home," Rimmer grated. He looked at the two giggling teenagers. "You look about the right age," he added, critically. They did not shrink away as he scrutinized them, but rather seemed to stand up even straighter, pushing their naked breasts more or less in his face. This brought on very recent, very unwanted memories, and he glared at them even harder. Oh, smeg, that was a vicious circle and a half.

The impasse was broken, mercifully, by a middle-aged woman stepping forward, and demanding attention in that obnoxious way these people did without even saying a word. There was something in their stance, Rimmer decided. Something in the way they looked at you, like they were just so much more worthy of your time than whatever you were doing. "Ilse told us of your sexual prowess."

Rimmer's eyes widened. "My what?" This was like a dream. A very bad dream. He had often fantasized, back when he was alive, about leaving his room and being greeted by a pack of women who had heard of his impressive sexual prowess and wanted to try it for themselves. With condiments. But now that the dream had come true, it was with smegging certifiably insane clones of Lister? Maybe he had died, back on Starbug, and was now in hell.

The last of the young ones, a slight, wiry girl with hair almost the color of straw, who had been hovering in the background, piped up. "We seek your guidance in improving ourselves, Oishmegheid!" Another one, who had been giving him lascivious glances since he stepped out of the hut, purred, "We wish to savor your difference." Her voice was a deep mezzo, flirting with alto and having secret affairs with tenor and baritone.

"It would improve... what's her face greatly to have her teeth knocked out," Rimmer grated. "Go on, smeg off."

Ignoring him completely - yes, they were Listerine, weren't they? - they closed in on him. Rimmer started to back away towards his hut. Maybe he could dash inside on the pretext of getting some lotion, and leap out of the window. The woman who had first spoken spread her hands as she approached, a look of calm serenity on her gerbiloid features. "We only wish to honor you, Oishmegheid. Your love is blessed, as is your gloriously different body."

Love? She couldn't possibly mean... "You have a gloriously different psyche, don't you? Nutters, the lot of you!"

She bowed her head, gravely. "Thank you."

Rimmer shook his head, bemused. "If I called you normal, well-adjusted individuals, would you take great offense?"

The youngest girl seemed to be overcoming her shyness. She pushed her way to the front of the pack of rabid clones, excitement shining in her eyes. "Let us pleasure you, Watcher!" She was practically jumping up and down, which did not exactly help keep Rimmer's mind off the fact that she wasn't wearing any clothes at all, beyond a few strings of wooden beads.

"You can pleasure me by pissing off," Rimmer snarled. The sporadic giggles only irritated him further. He pointed down the hill. "Get the smeg out of here!" he yelled. "Leave me the hell alone!"

The first speaker sighed, and a sadness crossed her face. "Very well. Nothing should be forced." The group started to shuffle off, mumbling and grumbling amongst themselves. Rimmer took a deep breath. The oldest of the group lingered, however, looking at him earnestly. Rimmer was about to give her some scathing comments, and had opened his mouth to do so, when she suddenly spoke. "Do not fear your love, Watcher."

I'll fear you smegging loonies, Rimmer thought. He turned away, walking towards the forest, towards the one place where he knew none of the blasted clones would follow.

The Watcher disappeared into the distance, and the woman sighed. It was as Ilse had said, if not worse. With a final, disapproving click of her tongue, she followed the others.


A hulking chunk of greenish metal sat in a clearing between several trees. They had grown around it, their roots tapping it nervously before finding better ground, and it was half-choked with wood and soft, green moss. A portion of it that showed a rectangular outline in the metal was clear of growth, however, as was a highly pitted and faded plastic square beside it. Rimmer lifted the plastic square and typed in a code that was far too familiar. After three hundred and... however many years, he did not think he was capable of forgetting it.

The door slid open with a yowling creak, clanging into the full-open position. Rimmer stepped inside, hit the Door Close switch, and bit his tongue as the door screeched back into place. As the pod had almost no contact with the outside world, it was still marginally grotty, becoming neither cleaner nor filthier as the years passed. One of the first things he had done on landing was to air it out, and so it no longer smelled like ship's air.

Rimmer wondered if that had been a good idea, as he settled himself on the floor with his back to the dull metal of the stasis bed. "I really screwed things up, didn't I, Listy?" he said, his voice loud in the small space. Stuck on this... planet. With these... nutters. He was smegging tired of it, their chirpiness and joy and blathering about love and happiness. He wanted to be back on Red Dwarf, or even, god help him, back on Starbug, where everything was meanness and petty insults and comfortable and safe, not all smegging nutty clones with alcohol and bare breasts and strange rituals to celebrate his smegging lurve for his smegging grotty bunkmate. You know the situation is dire when you long for the sanity of times with Lister, Rimmer reflected. He put his head in his hands, rubbing his face, and tried to think, as he always did. Absolutely nothing came to him, as it always did. He stood and checked the readings on the pod, as he always did.

Absolutely nothing had changed. As it always did. They registered flat on every scale. Rimmer slid back down to a seated position, his back against the pod.

Flatline.

A feeling like having his spine hollowed out with a melon baller and refilled with ice water descended over him. Flatline. The readings measured vitals over time, and as time was not passing in the stasis pod, they would be recording his vitals immediately prior to being placed in stasis.

Why hadn't he smegging thought of this before?

Because he would have gone batty, that's why. Lister was dead. He had been dead for over three hundred years. Rimmer sat and let that wash over him, like a smegging wave of sheep dip. No way on Mimas were those rodents out there going to evolve a cure for sodding death. He had spent three hundred and... however many years waiting for nothing. Zip. Zilch. Nada. Zero. Thinking up synonyms was easier than thinking about what he was going to do next. His brain quailed from that, and insisted on thinking about smaller steps.

Like burying the smegger.